Ace In The Hole wc-6 Read online

  "How do you do," Tach mumbled, as Father Squid, resplendent in his finest surplice, walked past with ponderous dignity.

  The priest reached the altar, set his missal in place, then turned to the crowd and raised his arms wide saying in his sad, soft voice,

  "Let us pray."

  Throughout the mass, Jory and Tachyon struggled along, always a beat behind the standing, kneeling, sitting worshipers. Last year it had been the same situation at Des's funeraland in that moment Tachyon knew what he was going to say in the eulogy. He stopped trying to make sense of the alien ceremony, and simply sat with head bowed, tears slipping slowly from beneath closed lids as he composed his thoughts.

  The little joker altar boy nudged his shoulder, and Tach returned from his reverie. Ahamper containing tiny loaves of bread. The Takisian broke off a bite, and passed on the hamper. The bread seemed to swell in his dry mouth, and he choked trying to get it down. With a quick surreptitious glance to either side he unlimbered his flask, and gulped down a sip of brandy.

  Father Squid beckoned, and Tach took his place at the lectern. Pulling out his handkerchief he wiped his face, drew a deep breath and began.

  "Exactly one year ago on the twentieth day of July, 1987, we gathered in this church to bury Xavier Desmond. I spoke his eulogy, as I shall speak Chrysalis's. And I am honored to do so, but the melancholy truth is that I am weary of burying my friends. Jokertown is a poorer place because of their passing, and my life-and yours-is diminished by their loss." Tach paused and stared down at his hands where they gripped the lectern. He forced himself to relax.

  "A eulogy is a speech in praise of a person, but I am finding this one to be very difficult. I called myself Chrysalis's friend. I saw her frequently. I even traveled around the world with her. But I realize now that I didn't really know her. I knew she called herself Chrysalis and that she lived in Jokertown, but I didn't know her natal name or where she'd been born. I knew she played at being British, but I never knew why. I knew she liked to drink amaretto, but I never knew what made her laugh. I knew she liked secrets, liked to be in control, liked to appear cool and untouched, but I never knew what made her that way."

  "I thought about all of this on the plane from Atlanta and decided that if I couldn't speak in praise of her, at least I could speak in praise of her deeds. A year ago, when war raged in our streets and our children were in danger, Chrysalis offered her place-her palace-as a refuge and fortress. It was dangerous for her, but danger never disturbed Chrysalis."

  "She was a joker who refused to act like a joker. The crystal lady never wore a mask. You took her as you found her, or you could just be damned. In this way, perhaps, she taught some nats tolerance and some jokers courage." Tears were streaming down his face. In order to speak past the lump in his throat he pushed his voice higher and louder.

  "Because we worship our ancestors, Takisian funerals are even more important than births. We believe our dead stay close by to guide their foolish descendants, a belief that can be terrifying or comforting, depending on the personality of the ancestor. Chrysalis's presence, I think, will be more terrifying than comforting because she will require much of us."

  "Someone murdered her. This should not go unpunished. "Hate rises like a smothering tide in this country. We must resist it.

  "Our neighbors are poor and hungry, frightened and destitute. We must feed and shelter and comfort and aid them."

  "She will expect all of this from us."

  Tachyon paused and scanned the congregation. His attention was drawn to the bank of votive candles burning near the lectern. Crossing to it, he lifted one of the tiny candles and returned to the lectern. The flame flickered hypnotically before his eyes.

  "In one year Jokertown has lost two of its most important leaders. We are frightened and saddened and confused by the loss. But I say they are still here, still with us. Let us be worthy of them. Win honor in their memories. Never forget."

  Bending, Tach pulled his knife from its boot sheath. He placed the candle on the lectern and positioned his forefinger directly over the flame. With a quick slash, he cut his finger and extinguished the flame with a drop of his blood.

  "Farewell, Chrysalis."

  Running into Fatman had rattled him a bit, but a couple swallows of whiskey had helped calm Spector down. He sat. hunched over the edge of the bed, staring at the headline.

  "HARTMANN TO SPEAK IN PARK TODAY." The senator was going to make a public plea to the jokers to demonstrate in a non-violent manner. It was risky, what with all the lunatics wandering around. No one was crazier than a politician with his back to the wall, though. And Hartmann was really up against it. Spector turned on the TV and tuned it to a channel that showed the times and places of the day's events. After a few moments waiting, there it was. A one o'clock speech and nothing about any cancellation.

  Spector chewed his lip and paged through the paper absentmindedly. He needed an angle. He'd need a way to blend into the crowd and still stand out enough to manage to catch Hartmann's eye.

  A small, corner ad caught his attention. It was Keaton's Kostumes. MASKS, MAKEUP, COSTUMES, PARTY SUPPLIES, and MORE it promised. A man in a costume held up the list and smiled in a stupid, exaggerated way. He looked like Marcel Marceau. Spector tossed the paper, wiped the ink stains off on his gray pants, and started laughing.

  Jack passed through the enormous brass revolving door into the Marriott lobby, saw the swarms of press and Hartmann delegates, and tried not to think of pigs at a trough. The campaign was doing its best to feed its people and get everyone back onto the floor in the short time allowed by the luncheon recess, and the Marriott had obliged with a vast buffet that was serving up pasta salad and rare roast beef by the ton. Jack could see Hiram Worchester perched on a sagging sofa near the lounge piano, a plate piled high with food balanced on either knee. The glass elevators were jammed full of press and delegates taking hookers up to their rooms for a little noon relief. The piano man was playing "Piano Man" once again. Jack had an oppressive feeling he knew precisely what song was going to come next.

  Fortunately Jack didn't have to cluster around the buffet tables and gobble his lunch with the others while the pianist offered the inevitable salute to Eva Peron-Jack had a permanent reserved table at the Bello Mondo, secured by offering the maitre d' a crisp new hundred-dollar bill every day.

  A good meal and a few double whiskeys would come in about right. It had been a lousy morning anyway. CBS commentators had jabbered right through most of Jimmy Carter's seconding speech for Hartmann, and the other networks had cut away for commercials. Chairman Jim Wright, who Jack figured wanted Hartmann to win, had cued the band to play "Stars and Stripes Forever" at the end of the speech, which got the audience up for a massive floor demonstration that those watching TV had entirely missed. Jack could have sworn he heard deVaughn's screams all the way from the Marriott.

  Jack was beginning to believe, in a purely superstitious way, in the existence of a secret ace who was out to get Hartmann. Or maybe just Gremlins from the Kremlin.

  "Jack! Mr. Braun!" An avuncular Father Christmas figure rolled toward him, a straw porkpie hat shadowing his long white hair and straggly beard. Louis Manxman, a reporter for the LA Times, who had been aboard Hartmann's campaign plane from the start. There was a purposeful look in the newsman's eye.

  "Hi, Louis." Jack tucked his briefcase under one arm, jammed his hands into the pockets of his Banana Republic photojournalist's jacket, and tried to skate past. Manxman moved purposefully to block him and grinned up through metal-rimmed bifocals.

  "I want the story on that test vote Monday night."

  "Ancient history, Louis."

  "The papers have been praising Danny Logan's masterful strategy, the way he put it together at the last minute. Even deVaughn didn't know what was happening-you shoulda seen his face when he realized. But I know Logan from way back, and it doesn't seem like his kinda move at all. I've talked to every delegate head I could find, and they all say thei
r orders came from you, not Logan."

  "Logan knew what I was doing." Jack tried to move left. Manxman moved to block.

  "A source told me the old mick was passed out Monday night."

  "He was celebrating." Moving right.

  "Celebrating from breakfast on, from what I hear." Blocking.

  Jack glared at him. "I'm a busy man, Louis. What the hell do you want, anyway?"

  "Was it you or wasn't it?"

  "I will not confirm or deny. Okay?"

  "Why deny it? You're a Hollywood boy-you should relish the publicity. Don't be such a weenie."

  Jack stopped for a moment and wondered if "weenie" was going to be the operative word for this convention.

  The inevitable happened, and the man in the white tuxedo pounded out the opening bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Jack felt his temper fraying.

  "I'm late for lunch, Louis. I won't confirm or deny. That's for the record; that's my statement. Got that?"

  The Santa Claus look was gone. "Forty years too late to take the Fifth, Jack."

  Anger snarled in Jack. He fixed the reporter in a cold stare and stepped forward as if to walk right through him.

  They were nearing the white piano on its pedestal. The man in the white tuxedo was still ringing through his paean to South American fascism. Anger began to roil in Jack in the wake of fear and humiliation. He said goodbye to Amy, then stepped up to the piano. The man in the white tuxedo gave him an automatic smile.

  There was a big fishbowl on the piano with a green drift of tip money in the bottom. Jack reached for the rim of the glass, exerted just slightly, and cracked off a hand-sized piece. His golden force field fluttered slightly. The piano man stared. Jack pulverized the glass in his hand, then reached forward, opened the front pocket of the man's jacket, and poured the glass inside.

  "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" died away.

  "Play that song again," Jack said, "and I'll kill you." Walking away, Jack felt he ought to be ashamed of this brand of cheap satisfaction.

  Somehow he wasn't.

  12:00 NooN

  Troll was Chrysalis's only pallbearer. The massive security chief from the Jokertown clinic cradled the coffin in his arms as if it were a sleeping child, and led the procession into the churchyard. More prayers were said, and Father Squid blessed the grave with incense and holy water. Tachyon scooped up a handful of dirt, and dribbled it slowly onto the coin. It gave back a hollow, scrabbling sound like claws on glass, and Tachyon shuddered.

  The sun looked bloated and somehow diseased as it floated in the pall of a smoggy New York summer day. Tach longed for the end. The dead had been buried. Now Atlanta was beckoning. But there was still the receiving line to be endured, and thirty minutes of human handshakes. Tach decided to spare himself some of the grossities. He pulled out a pair of red kid gloves, and worked them over his slim, white hands.

  "Hello, Father," said a familiar voice to his left. "Good to see you again, Daniel."

  Tachyon couldn't restrain himself. He flung himself into Brennan's arms, hugging the human with a fierce grip, and a show of naked emotion that he knew the man was only tolerating. With a sharply indrawn breath, Tach held Brennan at arm's length and eyed him critically.

  "We must talk. Come."

  They walked deeper into the graveyard until they were partly shielded by several intricate tombstones. Tachyon peered around a weeping angel at the woman who stared curiously after them.

  "The beautiful blonde must be Jennifer."

  "Yes," said Brennan.

  "I'd say you're a lucky man, but that would seem less than apt when you're being framed for murder. Is that what brought you back?"

  "Partly. Mostly I'm here to find who killed her."

  "And bow are you progressing?"

  "Not too well."

  "Any theories?"

  "I thought Kien might have done it."

  Tachyon shook his head. "That makes no sense. We had a deal that took you out of the city and ended the war. Why would he risk restarting the whole killing cycle?"

  "Who knows? I'm just going to keep poking until something jumps."

  Dryly Tach said, "Just make sure it doesn't jump on you. I wish I could aid you, but I must return to Atlanta. You will keep in touch?"

  "No. Once I finish this, Jennifer and I are leaving New York, and this time it will be for good."

  "If you won't keep in touch, at least be careful."

  "That I can agree to."

  1:00 P.M.

  Piedmont Park was packed. Spector shouldered his way through the crowd toward the podium. He felt like an idiot in the tight black-and-white outfit. His skin was suffocating under the greasepaint. He'd barely made it to the park on time. The costume shop had been wall-to-wall bodies, mostly jokers. Luckily, the gathering in the park had emptied the streets. He'd left his clothes and other belongings in a locker. The key was tucked under the wrist of his leotard.

  He was still a good hundred yards from the podium. They'd done a mike test, but so far, no Hartmann. A shadow moved slowly over the crowd. Spector looked up, shading his eyes from the glare, and saw the Turtle gliding noiselessly over them toward the stage, which was being prepared for the senator's speech. There was applause and a small cheer. The crowd was mostly jokers, although there were a few groups of nats clustered at the edges.

  "Look, Mommy, a funny man." A young joker girl pointed at Spector. She was sitting in a beat-up stroller, holding a flower. Her arms and legs were rail-thin and knobbed up and down. They looked like they'd been broken twenty times each.

  Spector gave a weak smile, hoping the greasepaint around his lips made it seem bigger than it was.

  The girl's mother smiled back. Patterns of blotchy red pigment crept across her skin. As Spector watched, one of the circles closed into a small dot and erupted blood. The woman wiped it away in a quick, embarrassed motion. She took the flower from her daughter's hand and held it out to Spector. Spector reached out and took it, being careful not to touch her flesh. Being a nat in a crowd of jokers, even dressed as a mime, gave him the creeps. He turned away.

  "Do something funny," the little girl said. "Mommy, make him do something funny."

  There was a murmur of approval from the crowd. Spector turned slowly and tried to think. Funny was something he'd never been accused of being. He tried balancing the flower on the tip of a finger. Amazingly, he was able to. There was dead silence. Sweat dripped over his painted brows and into his eyes. He was breathing hard. It was still very quiet.

  A gloved hand flashed before Spector's face, snatching the flower. It placed the stem between painted lips and struck an affected pose. Laughter from the crowd. The other mime bowed low and raised up slowly.

  Spector took a step back. The other mime quickly grabbed him by the elbow and shook his head. More giggles from the crowd. This was the last thing Spector needed. Not only was he the center of attention, but he was still a long way from where he needed to be. Hartmann might start up any second and Spector wouldn't be able to get through in time.

  The other mime looked down, made a face, and pointed at Spector's feet. Spector glanced down instinctively and saw nothing there, just as the mime's hand came up under his chin and popped his head back. This got the biggest laugh of all. The mime clutched at his sides and laughed noiselessly. Spector rubbed his mouth; he'd bitten his tongue. He gritted his teeth under the painted-on smile.

  The other mime placed a finger on the top of Spector's head and danced around him like a maypole. He stopped in front of Spector, tugged at his cheeks.

  Spector had put up with enough. It was time to get this fucker out of his hair. He stepped in close and made eye contact. He locked in and set the pain free, grabbing the mime's shoulders as he began to fall over. Spector lowered him slowly, pulling the mime's hands together over his chest. The shithead's eyes were glazed over with death and surprise by the time he came to rest on the trampled grass. Spector stuck the flower in the corpse's hands and applauded melodr
amatically. The crowd laughed and cheered. Some patted him on the back; others looked at the mime, waiting for him to get up.

  "My friends." The amplified voice came from the podium. The crowd turned. Spector angled his shoulders and began pushing through. "Today, we will have the privilege to hear from the only man who can lead us through these next difficult years. A man who preaches tolerance, not hatred. A man who unites, instead of being divisive. A man who will lead his people, not herd them. I give you the next president of the United States of America, Senator Gregg Hartmann."

  The applause was deafening. There were weird screams and whistles, joker noises. Spector caught an elbow in the ear from a freak with arms that hung to his knees. He shook it off and kept moving in.

  "Thank you." Hartmann paused while the applause and cheers played out. "Thank all of you very much."

  Spector could see him now, but there was no way to lock eyes at this distance, even if Hartmann was looking right at him. The crowd was pressing in toward the podium. Spector rode the flood of human mistakes; used his narrow shoulders to cut through. Another minute or two and he'd be in position. "It has been said that I am a pro-joker candidate." Hartmann raised his hands to still the applause before it could start. "That is not strictly true. I have always placed one idea above all others. That this country should exist as our founding fathers planned it. Equal rights for all, guaranteed, under the law of the land. No individual greater than the next. No one, however powerful, exempt from the law." Hartmann paused. The crowd applauded again.

  Spector was about a hundred feet away in the center of the crowd. Hartmann was wearing a beige suit. A slight breeze stirred at his styled hair. Secret Service agents flanked the podium, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The senator's gaze swept the crowd but missed Spector. It would take total concentration to lock on for the instant they had eye contact. If that even happened.